


La Douleur Exquise - Jim Moriarty/OC Holmes Sister

by sighcobaby



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Mycroft Holmes, Big Brother Sherlock Holmes, Brother-Sister Relationships, Estrangement, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Fluff, Hate to Love, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Family, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jim Moriarty Has Feelings, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, Major Original Character(s), Mental Health Issues, Moriarty is Alive, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, No Incest, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Self-Harm, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Has A Sister, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Slow Burn, Smut, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24879202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sighcobaby/pseuds/sighcobaby
Summary: Delilah Isolde Charlotte Holmes is the youngest - and often 'most ordinary' - Holmes child. She isn't interested in crime, deductions or government. She does not care for murder mysteries or cases of political value. In fact, Delilah enjoys keeping her eccentric more art-indulgent life completely separate from the often life threatening shenanigans of her older brothers. That is, until Jim Moriarty steps into the picture.'La Douleur Exquise,' is the heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have. This is, in all essence, a love story.
Relationships: Jim Moriarty & Original Female Character(s), Jim Moriarty/Original Character, Jim Moriarty/Original Female Character(s), Mycroft Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes & Sherlock Holmes' Family, Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 120





	1. Delilah Holmes

Delilah Isolde Charlotte Holmes was born in much the same way as her older siblings. She was raised in the same house, attended the same schools and received the same affections and appraisals from her mother and father as her elder brothers both did. But Delilah did not consider herself one among the bunch with her intelligent siblings; she considered herself rather one next to the bunch. Apart from them.

This was not to say Delilah was not intelligent or incapable, she was anything but average, but comparing yourself to two of the smartest humans on the planet could make anyone feel particularly inadequate. And that was always her. The inadequate, ordinary little Holmes daughter who could not deduce, solve crimes or run the country. She chose to go by Delilah and not by Isolde for all the opposite reasons which Sherlock went by Sherlock and not by William.

Delilah's secret weapon however, was that she was everything that the Holmes boys were not. She was cheerful where her brothers were glum, emotionally intelligent and open where her brothers were suppressful, and undoubtedly kind where her brothers were passive. It was these traits, as well as her general lack of respect for the _‘intellectual things,’_ and her uncompetitive nature, that brought her focus to subjects her siblings had no time for: the arts.

She excelled in literature and photography, sculpting and painting, and, upon finding herself in her mid-twenties plagued with loneliness and hidden behind the shadow her elder brother Sherlock cast over her with his newfound success, she decided there was only one thing for her to do: To put on a show. Not a show in the sense of criminal extravagance or dramatised to gain the attention of her sentiment depriving elder brothers, but an exhibition to showcase what she could do. An exhibit of what the youngest Holmes could do that the others could not.

In a small shoeboxed one bedroom apartment nestled between Hyde Park and Brompton Cemetery in South Kensington, London, approximately thirty-three minutes by train from the well known 221B Baker Street, is where this story begins. Delilah, after having popped down to the coffee shop below her apartment and setting a timer on her phone, waited beside her white paned window with dirty paintbrushes tucked behind her ear and a devilish smirk set upon her face. 

Meanwhile, at the aforementioned Baker Street, Mycroft Holmes was making another unexpected call to his younger, very bored, detective brother and his friend John Watson. They both sat rather casually about their front room. 

“Please tell me you’re here about a case, Mycroft.” Sherlock said the minute Mycroft had reached the top of the stairs. He did not move from his seating position, nor did he take his eyes off of the seemingly thin air he had been gazing into. 

“In a way, I wish I was.” Mycroft sent him an ever unamused sort of glance, “I believe a murder would be rather more your style, but I’m afraid that isn’t why I’m here.” 

“Then why are you here?” Sherlock replied, still not sparing his elder brother the courtesy of eye contact, “I assume it isn’t for a brotherly chat.” 

Mycroft only sighed, _“She’s at it again.”_

This caught Sherlock's attention. He looked to his brother with a look John Watson thought he had never seen grace his friends features, “Are you sure?” 

“Who’s doing what?” John asked curiously, closing the lid of his laptop that he had open on his lap. 

“I’m sure. Mummy called.” 

And then Sherlock was bolt upright and out of the door, but without, Watson noticed, the use of his very favourite quote, _‘the game is on.’_ The game was most certainly not on. This was no game to Sherlock. Mycroft followed his younger brother down the stairs and out of the door with Watson in tow. They sat in the back of Mycroft’s personal car and made it to the entrance of one Coca Moma Coffeehouse in 17 minutes. 

The door to Delilah's apartment opened. She pressed the stop button on her timer. 

“18 minutes 23 seconds,” She announced to her slightly out of breath brothers and companion, “You’re getting slow! What if I was at risk of death?” 

Sherlock ignored her words and stalked towards her with a scowl, taking her chin rather roughly in one hand and pulling at the lid of her right eye slightly with the other. She slapped at his hands and closed her eyes tightly in protest but he only continued, checking her pulse as he forced out her arm towards him. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing to her?” John stood in bewilderment, slight panic in his voice. 

“Relax Sherly,” Delilah protested, “You’d know if I was high.” 

“Precaution.” Sherlock said with a patronising fake smile, and then proceeded to begin looking wildly across her apartment in much the same way he would fumble for spare cigarettes in his own home. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed with a roll of his eyes, “I think we’ve been, how the kids say, _‘had off’_.” 

“Surpriiiiiise,” Delilah said a bit less enthusiastically than she had meant due to the sight of her brother rifling through her art prints and letters, “Sherlock pack it in. I’m not high, I was just pretending.” 

“Pretending?” Sherlock asked as though he did not know the meaning of the word, “You can’t expect me to believe-” But he had stopped talking because she was looking at him in much the same way their Mother would when he’d broken something or upset someone as a child. Her arms were holding her hips and her eyebrows were slightly raised. She wouldn't be giving him that look if she’d taken anything. He straightened himself up and gave a little click of his tongue as he stopped his search. 

“Why on Earth have you called us here?” Mycroft asked passively. 

“You both never pick up the phone.” Delilah shrugged with a dramatic sort of sulk. 

“I’m sorry,” John started, still confused at the scene playing out around him, “ _What_ is going on?” 

“You brought your friend?” Delilah looked to Sherlock with what he’d describe as overenthusiasm, “Finally!” 

Delilah moved closer to John and stuck out her hand in greeting, he took it with a confused smile, “John Watson. Sorry, but what is happening?” 

“Our sister seems to think it's amusing to raise the alarms.” Mycroft answered, swinging his umbrella around and looking through her apartment with apparent interest, “Sherlock isn't the only Holmes with an unfortunate affinity to drugs.” 

“Like you’d come if I asked nicely.” Delilah scoffed, ignoring the outright exposure of her drug habits whilst still shaking John’s hand. 

John felt like someone had just blown into his eardrums at the mention of the words _‘our sister’_. Surely not. 

“Delilah,” She introduced herself. Sherlock noticed her lack of surname amongst her introduction and wondered if this was because she’d already been established as a Holmes, or because she was still feeling a little separate from the family, “I’m not surprised. They never seem to tell anyone about little old me.” 

The end of her sentence made him choose the latter as the reason. 

John was simultaneously amused and disoriented. Surely this was a joke? There was no denying she had a resemblance to his detective friend; the dark curls, the piercing blue eyes and high cheekbones. But her features were softened by a smile. She was pretty, younger and much smaller than her brothers. Her stance was not as rigid as the two elder Holmes’, her speech not as elongated and her style not as sophisticatedly middle class. Could it really be a joke? The face his normally emotion absent friend had made upon the thought of this woman being in a compromising drug induced state made sense if she was his younger sister. He would be protective of her whether he would admit to it or not. 

“Why are we here? You’re wasting our time.” Sherlock drew John from his thoughts. 

“Neither of you were busy.” Delilah replied. 

“And how would you know that?” 

“Don’t get smart with me Sherlock. Mum told me.” 

“She knew?” Sherlock said with his mouth agape like a surprised child. 

“She knew you wouldn't come if I simply asked.” Delilah laughed, “I wanted to show you some of my art, before my exhibition! Give you the invites and stuff.” 

“Art?” John asked, continually flabbergasted at the thought that this woman, brightly dressed and laughing freely surrounded by mountains of canvases rather than case files could be in any way related to Sherlock and Mycroft, “You’re an artist?” 

Sherlock had to bite his tongue to stop himself from making fun of John's lack of observation. 

“I am,” She replied with a smile, “It’s my first proper exhibition actually.” 

“I’m sorry, are you sure you're their sister?” John asked with a laugh, looking back and forth from her to the Holmes brothers in awe. 

“Not entirely,” She laughed once more, “How’s living with Sherlock treating you?” 

John gave a laugh and a shake of his head, “How did you deduce that then?” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” She replied, “I can’t deduce people like them. Mrs Hudson told me a Watson had moved into Baker Street not too long ago. I tend to find out my information in much more ordinary ways.” 

_‘A Holmes that doesn't deduce? Am I dreaming?’_ John thought as he continued to take in Delilah’s eccentricities. 

“When?” Sherlock interrupted finally. 

“When what?” Delilah asked. 

“And we’re the ones getting slow?” Sherlock scoffed. 

“Do you want a smack?” Delilah asked with her brows crossed. 

“Ladies, ladies.” Mycroft calmed with a roll of his eyes, “Your exhibition, dear sister.” 

“It’s on Friday in the Lisson Gallery. It’s ten minutes from Baker Street actually. I’d like it if you both came. _BOTH_ of you,” She sent a warning look Sherlock’s way, “John, you’re invited too.” 

“Of course.” John agreed happily, not missing the thankful smirk from Delilah. John thought that perhaps Delilah assumed he could influence her brother's attendance. John was right to think this. 

“Come on John, we’re going.” Sherlock said suddenly, making his way out of Delilah’s flat and beckoning his friend to follow. 

“Lovely to see you too brother of mine.” She huffed sarcastically as she watched her brother descend the stairs to exit the building without a goodbye as he did so often. 

“It was lovely to meet you Delilah.” John said kindly. 

“You too John.” 

She watched through her slightly ajar window as the pair left the building and stalked down the busy London street, hailing a taxi as they went. 

“I’m glad he’s made a friend.” Delilah smiled, turning to Mycroft who was still intently admiring the many works in progress that littered her apartment, “You will come won't you Mycroft?” 

Mycroft was thankful she hadn't used any silly nickname for him as she had done to Sherlock, although he was unsurprised at this. _‘She does enjoy teasing our brother the most.’_

“Of course.” He gave his youngest sister an uncharacteristically comforting smile, “I didn’t force you into a Fine Arts Degree for nothing.” 

> __
> 
> _21st October 1986  
>  _
> 
> __
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> _Mycroft Holmes was ten years old. Sherlock was three. Eurus, two._
> 
> __
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> _All three sat on the carpeted floor in Musgrave Hall side by side beside the fire and patiently watched with wide eyes upon the arrival of the fourth Holmes child nestled in blankets on their mother's lap._
> 
> __
> 
> __
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> _“Is it a girl?” Sherlock asked curiously as he leaned into his mother and peered over the bundle in her arms._
> 
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> __
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> _“Of course she’s a girl. Mummy’s put her in pink.” Mycroft said to his younger brother as he too looked upon his newest sister._
> 
> __
> 
> __
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> _“This is Delilah.” Mrs Holmes spoke fondly to her children as she looked down upon her youngest sleeping child. She’d been the easiest of her births and the quietest to bring home._
> 
> __
> 
> __
> 
> _Mr Holmes sat on the arm of the chair his wife was relaxing in, now with Eurus in his arms to give her a better view of her sister. The two Holmes sons gazed on in fondness, but Eurus, even in her youngest years, riggled uncomfortably in a desperate attempt to bring her brother's focus back to her._
> 
> __
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> __
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> _“Can we play with her?” Sherlock asked innocently._
> 
> __
> 
> __
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> _“She’s too tiny yet, you’ll hurt her.” Mycroft told him._
> 
> _“I won’t hurt her!” Sherlock replied to his brother with a scowl, “I will never hurt her.”_


	2. The Finer Things

Throughout the entire preparation period for Delilah’s exhibition she was worried and stressed out to the point of having more than a few cigarettes on her breaks. It wasn't because she was nervous of people’s ever judgemental eyes on her work, or because she was behind schedule, or because she thought people may not show up; It was because of Sherlock.

“I’m sorry,” Delilah said annoyed, “How are you both this calm?”

Delilah was sitting on the ever famous client's chair in 221B Baker Street, knees knocking together and hands shakily holding a cup of tea. Her brothers sat across from one another, calmly conversing as though the windows to the apartment had not been shattered from an explosion the previous night. The remnants of the accident lay hazardously across the wood and matched the bullet holes Sherlock had so adamantly drove into the wall.

“Why would we not be?” Sherlock asked her confused.

“You could have died, Sherlock!” Delilah raised her voice, “Are you serious?”

Sherlock was unsurprised at his sister’s reaction. He knew she was highly emotional and more upfrontly protective of him than Mycroft was. He softened his features at Delilah’s clear distress and gave her a short, “I’m not dead.”

To anyone else that would seem like below the bare minimum of support, but to Delilah the slightest affection from her brothers went a very long way.

“Fine,” Delilah spoke more calmly, reasoning it would probably take a lot more than a gas leak to kill her brother, “I better go, the exhibition opens tonight and I have to sort everything out.”

“Sit,” Sherlock said when Delilah began to collect her things and stand, “You’re shaking. You can’t walk there. Mycroft will take you.”

“Will I?” Mycroft asked with an air of amusement. But, of course, they all knew he would. And he did.

He dropped her off right outside the entrance to the Lisson Gallery, where he came back to meet her with his parents that very evening.

Delilah was disappointed she had not seen Sherlock before the exhibition opened, Mycroft could tell by the way her eyes searched around rapidly and how she fiddled with the ruffled hem of her dress. She led her family, minus Sherlock, to the room that held her work on the walls, but of course Sherlock, even in the midst of solving Moriarty’s little game, had time for his baby sister. John didn't even have to remind him. The two of them snook in a little late, murder and bombings on their mind but art in their line of eye.

Sherlock could tell she was overworked and anxious as she stood in front of her friends, family and a few interested party members. Her curls were wilder than normal, her clothes not properly ironed, she was picking at the skin beside her thumb nail absentmindedly, and he knew she had not eaten today because she glanced at the complimentary sandwiches a little too often.

As he deduced his sister he was completely unaware she was silently deducing him herself. Sherlock liked to think that he was barren of all possible emotion and that nobody could get to him, but from one glance she could see the stressful excitement on his face from whatever case he was on, and knew that his stomach was just as empty as hers.

“Oh God John, she’s doing a speech.” Sherlock said in distaste.

“That’s usually what happens at someone's first exhibition.” John replied.

“But she’s far too sentimental.”

“Just shut up and listen.” The murmuring of voices was suddenly quiet as Delilah began to speak.

“Erm, hi, hello there,” She began to speak awkwardly to everyone, her heart beating in her chest and up through her mouth like the banging of a drum. Public speaking isn’t a gift many people possess, and Delilah certainly wasn't blessed with it.

“Thank you for coming to my show. I’m really very thankful you could all make time to celebrate my first exhibition with me.” She coughed a little when her voice broke and then carried on, “ _‘Finer Things’_ is a collection of pieces I have been working on most of my life. My aim was to encompass and explore all the smaller things in life that we often overlook that can hold much more value and beauty than we think. Like how bus drivers wave to one another as they drive past, or how snails hide in broken bits of wall or how nice a jumper feels when it's cold. Simple pleasures almost.” 

Sherlock listened intently as she continued, something he admittedly didn't do to his sister often, “I was wholeheartedly inspired by my brothers."

That certainly threw him off.

"They, if you've never had the pleasure to meet either of them, tend to notice everything but often fail to notice the beauty and value in the things that I see. So,” She looked to Mycroft who was very near beside her, and to Sherlock, who was attempting to hide unsuccessfully, “even though I know they think there's more important things to be doing and seeing and studying, I hope they like this. I hope that my work can show you how I choose to see life. My brothers, if they've taught me anything, it's that the tiny finer things, no matter how small those details may be, can be really important. So, I guess, here are my important finer things. Thank you.”

As chatter lifted amongst the gallery and people dispersed to appreciate the art, John watched Sherlock curiously out of the corner of his eye and was surprised to see a look on Sherlock that told John he was a bit overwhelmed. They walked silently around the gallery, taking in bright coloured fabric weavings, multilayered lino printings, thickly painted canvas’, melted sculptures of wax and metal, wood carvings and photographs printed on glossy textured paper. Sherlock certainly had never underestimated his sisters artistic talents but was still just as surprised as John seemed to be.

“This is a nice surprise, I almost didn’t think you were coming!” Delilah said excitedly from behind her brother’s back as he and John admired a particular painting of dark browns and blacks. Considering John had army training he was some how certainly spooked from Delilah’s appearance out of thin air.

He clutched his heart and gave out a heavy laugh, “Jesus!”

“My name’s Delilah, John, have you forgotten already?” She laughed and Sherlock chuckled along with her, “I’m sorry.”

“No you're bloody not," He continued to chuckle, "This is all amazing, I had no idea you could do all stuff like this.” John complimented with a nod to the painting. He was quick to realise Delilah was shy about receiving praise when her face got a little redder and she barely whispered out a _‘Thank you.’_

“I hope they're not too mundane for you.” She spoke to Sherlock, who was still intently watching the painting.

“No,” Sherlock replied with a soft smile, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze, “No, they're not mundane. They're beautiful.” There were not many people Sherlock was affectionate with impromptu, but Delilah certainly was one of those select few. John found it particularly amusing that he’d complained about sentiment before becoming immediately sentimental himself.

“Have you eaten?” They both asked each other simultaneously, and then looked at each other in shocked amusement.

John thought his heart couldn't be more warmed by the sight of the pair.

-

The night had crept up on London slowly, encapsulating the Lisson Gallery in darkness. Delilah sighed as she finally finished clearing up the used plastic champagne glasses and organising her art prints to sell the following day. Opening day had gone surprisingly well, and even though her stomach was now full, her purse was heavier and her heart was light and full of love, a niggling feeling nipped at the back of her brain; a forewarning of some unpredictable life changing occurrence perhaps?

She had just finished locking the back office when the sounds of footsteps weaved throughout the tall art mounted walls. They were light but somewhat meaningful steps, ones almost made to toy with her. Everything else was silent, the footsteps almost beckoned her to attention. If she was anyone else she would have assumed it was a late customer - a passer by possibly enticed by her art in the gallery window - a person only eager to enjoy what art she had to offer. But, she was a Holmes, and a Holmes that listened intently to her brothers important conversations to feel involved despite not inputting any valuable insight. Plus, she’d asked John about it all when he and Sherlock had kindly brought her some chips before they had restarted their consulting detective antics. She knew of what Sherlock was up to - the game he was playing. She knew of the man with the name _‘Moriarty’._

Choosing not to just sit there and wonder, she took her own feet towards the noise of footsteps. There, standing in front of one of her sculptures was a man she of course did not recognise. He was tall, dark haired, hands shoved deep within his pockets and a stance so confident the mere sight of him nearly made Delilah wobble.

Delilah tried to force herself to speak but she couldn't seem to form any words. Was she being paranoid? Perhaps he really was just a genuine passer by interested in her work?

“You know,” The stranger spoke without taking his eyes from her work, his voice was smooth and song-like and his accent made her reminisce on her holiday to Donegal when she was a teen, “You really are exceptionally talented Miss Holmes, truly so.” 

_‘Nope. I’m definitely not being paranoid,’_ She thought. No normal non-threatening human would speak in that tone... in that snake-like way.

Delilah’s mind was not like her brothers’, but she wasn’t stupid. Fight or flight kicks in for everyone whether you're a detective, a criminal or an artist, and hers had done just that. Flight didn't seem like the option this man would appreciate; it's too predictable to act scared. She could understand this man because she understood her brothers. Fight had overruled flight in this unsure situation, and her fighting choice would be to use a talent she knew she was rather good at; _charm_.

 _‘Charm and calm. Charm and calm.’_ She thought to herself.

“Thank you.” Delilah replied, walking a little closer to him, “Is there a reason you're here so late?” 

The stranger had not turned around at the sound of her voice, but he had certainly not expected the clearness of it, nor had he expected her to begin walking towards him willingly. 

“Just wanted a little chat is all.” The man said, raking his eyes across another of her paintings. 

“Is this about Sherlock?” She asked, coming to stand beside him, the slight tone of annoyance in his voice making him almost laugh. 

“Ooooo, you’re quick.” He smirked, turning to give her a mischievous smile and finally getting a glimpse of the youngest Holmes. If he had not expected the voice he had definitely not predicted the body that it came from.

The signature dark Holmes curls and bright eyes were a given, however, much like John, he was surprised by the softness of her face, the radiance of her slightly reddened cheeks and luring deep set eyes. He knowingly pleasured in standing there, taking in every curve of her body. He noted where her clothes hung tightly and where they hung loose and was surprised by her outfit being brightly coloured and unashamedly eccentric. She was what he would consider normal, but normal in the sense of being a Holmes was in-and-of-itself not so normal. Delilah to him was enticingly and unexpectedly beautiful. Although he admittedly found her appealing to the eye - he’d have certainly given her a good glance if she’d strolled past him unidentified in the street - it was the fact she was a Holmes that caught his interest more than anything and he had a weird unfamiliar feeling in the base of his stomach at the very thought of her standing beside him. 

“I sense jealousy.” He teased. 

“Am I that obvious?” She asked. She was sarcastic - a trait he was amused by. She certainly wasn't boring. Delilah was taking in the strangers' looks properly too as he observed her. He was unapologetically groomed and well looked after, handsome in a way he even knew it, but she could see clearly behind his pair of dark orbs something he wouldn’t admit to anyone. She could see pain and hurt and loneliness written across those empty lifeless looking eyes. 

“I was wondering who it was who had stolen Sherlock's attention from me.” He explained with a fake sort of sadness, “We were playing a little game you see...a sister though. That was a real surprise. Mycroft keeps you very well hidden.” 

_‘Moriarty,’_ Delilah thought immediately, _‘This has to be Moriarty.’_

Truthfully, Jim Moriarty had failed to collect a vital bit of information about his chosen playmate Sherlock Holmes. He was right when he said Mycroft kept Delilah very well hidden. If it hadn't been for Delilah’s name and work being on display and having stalked Sherlock to this very building he didn't think he’d have even noticed there was another Holmes sibling wandering around London. He’d cursed himself for not having been prepared, but simultaneously took it as a silent blessing, a pleasant surprise to meet a Holmes in person, and one so undoubtedly attractive. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asked her, shifting his whole body to face her. 

“Maybe, do you want to elaborate?” She challenged. 

“No.” 

“But you will anyway.” She teased him with a smile. 

“How did you know?” He asked with an exaggerated face of shock. 

“I can see it, you're just itching to tell me.” Delilah followed his playful behaviour and Moriarty was certainly not prepared for the excitement this younger Holmes was filling him with. 

“You're different than I imagined.” He said honestly. 

“What did you expect?” She asked. 

“Someone a bit less ordinary for a start.” He answered honestly. She was normal. He assumed she wouldn't be as much fun as Sherlock, though so far he seemed to be enjoying himself. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” She said straight faced and sarcastic, “I’d give you the address of my brother to help with the boredom I've bestowed upon you but for some odd reason I get the feeling you already know it.” 

Moriarty laughed, “Oh you speak like your brothers. You're wrong though, you're not a disappointment at all.” 

He was standing rather close to her, looking her up and down. She was very aware of his eyes on her, how he licked his lips slightly as he raked them from her legs to her head. 

“What do you want, Moriarty?” She asked, looking him dead in the eye. He admired the unwavering determined look on her face even though he could tell he scared her a little by the sweat formed on her upper neck. 

“Oooooo you're faster than I thought, I didn't give you enough credit.” He said holding up his hands. 

“Well, you're a little obvious.” 

“I am?” He made a fake hurt face once more and surprisingly she let out a laugh. A slow sort of breathy chuckle which he was certainly not used to in these usually intimidating situations. 

“I mean, I don't think there's anyone else who’s so obsessed with my brother they’d come to my show.” 

“Well I’m glad you're not flattering yourself…” Jim said, attempting to somewhat prove to himself he wasn't flattering her too much but knowing deep down he was probably still going to continue to be flattering and flirty, “I thought he’d be here.” 

“Charming,” She replied with an eye roll, turning her back to him and continuing her mission to sort through some art prints and leaflets near the exhibition entrance, “You're about three hours late I'm afraid.” 

“That's fine,” He said honestly, watching her every move and becoming continually captivated by the presence of this young woman who, despite knowing the danger she was in, seemed to completely ignore him, “I’m thoroughly entertained anyway.” 

_‘There’s sometimes nothing more fun to a man who has everything than a woman who won't give him what he wants.’_ Jim thought, and proceeded to ask himself what he meant by what he wanted.

He was silent for a moment in thought as he watched her, attempting to work out her next move. He was almost questioning himself. This woman was ordinary, so why was he seemingly so startled by her responses, “I’m surprised actually...no-one usually surprises me.” 

“And why’s that?” She asked with another chuckle and a smile, "Maybe everyone you've ever met is just really fucking boring." Oh, he quite fancied the way she spoke. And he quite fancied her smile. He smiled back and, oh no, she quite fancied his smile too. 

“Maybe." He laughed, "You're just so...” 

“Not Sherlock.” She interrupted. She’d interrupted him. _Him_. And she did it with a smile and he just let her. He allowed it. 

“Oh no,” He laughed, “You’re definitely a Holmes. I see Sherlock all over you. You've just got...more...spunk.” 

She laughed again, “Less brains, more spunk. Lovely vocabulary.” 

“Do you have any other suggestions?” 

“A few.” She smirked at him, and for a moment they just looked at each other, each with a sense of strange attraction for the other that neither of them could begin to explain to themselves. 

“So, baby Holmes...” Jim spoke again, not stopping his stares or silent appreciations for Delilah, but trying to somewhat keep his focus on Sherlock and the game despite suddenly wishing it was Delilah he’d been stalking all these past weeks, “I need your help with something.”


	3. The Deduction

_“I need your help with something.”_

This something that Jim Moriarty spoke of wasn’t a shock to Delilah. She’d listened intently to the story laced with criminal psychoticness Moriarty had put her brother and John through earlier that day, but she didn’t assume that she’d become wrapped up in it. 

“How disappointing...and here I was thinking we were getting on,” Delilah sighed dramatically, “Now you're trying to blow me up.” 

Jim chuckled lightly as he fiddled expertly with the multi-coloured wiring of the bomb he’d picked out for Delilah. He circled her like a shark to its prey, fixing wires here and there and watching her form delightfully as he went. 

Impressed as he was by her bravery and passiveness to being strapped to a clock that would count down to her possible death, Delilah couldn’t help her body’s natural impulses and he couldn't not notice the way her legs wobbled and her hands shook. He thought the split second fear in those icy cold eyes upon the sight of the bomb laced jacket would have made him feel more accomplished, but her continually passive attitude had made it hard for that feeling to reach him. 

Forcing her mind to John’s blog as a way of distracting her from the mass murderer who continued fiddling with the bomb and breathing hauntingly down her neck, she willed herself to believe that after all of this was over she could read about how Sherlock and John had saved the youngest Holmes sibling. She could move on with her life in the same ordinary way she enjoyed. The silky voice of Moriarty drew her from these thoughts and plagued her with the fear that perhaps this was all a little too large for her big brother to handle. Perhaps her life would not go back to being ordinary. Perhaps, she would have no life to go back to at all. 

“It’s a shame my dear, I really don't want to strap a bomb to you but...well, your brother is in my way and I want to show him what I can do. Give him a scare.” 

“How romantic,” Delilah rolled her eyes, thankful her fearful thoughts hadn't made her voice weak, “What do I need to do?” 

“Very obedient,” Jim replied, finally finishing wiring up the device and brushing himself off in front of her once more, “You're smarter than those idiot brothers give you credit for.” 

“Don't push it.” She gave him a glare, “I’ll only be nice if you are.” 

Delilah thought for a moment she’d given up her weak spot - her family - but then again, you’d have to be an imbecile not to see that in the first place. And Jim Moriarty certainly was no imbecile. 

He held his hands up with a chuckle, “Fair enough.” 

“What do I have to do? Just stand here and wait?” Delilah asked, “That’s going to be very boring.” 

“I need you to read out what I write, _only_ what I write, so that Sherlock can’t recognise my voice.” Moriarty said seriously, handing her a small black paging machine and a burner phone, both of which Delilah took, “If you say anything other than what I tell you to, I’ll shoot you. If you try to tell him what I look like, or sound like, I'll shoot you. Understand?” 

For the first time his tone of voice had instilled a painful bubble of fear in her chest. He would shoot her. He would kill her if she didn't do as he said. 

“With what gun?” Delilah asked in a way she hoped sounded more out of curiosity than of disobedience. 

Moriarty didn’t answer. He only smiled. A cold dead smile that was lit up in red as the mark of a sniper glowed on her chest. It answered her question at least. 

“Why did you show your face to me in person if you don't want Sherlock to figure out who you are? Do you expect me not to tell him even when I’m safe? Or do you think he’ll fail your little game?” Delilah asked. 

“You know you're probably the only hostage who doesn't know how to shut up.” 

“Would you prefer it if I cried.” Delilah said with an exaggerated crying voice and a face full of fake fear. 

_‘Oh, you’re very interesting.’_ Jim thought. 

“Are you mocking me?” Jim asked with a smirk. 

“Yes. Are you going to answer my questions?” Delilah asked with a smirk of her own. If she was going to die, she was going to die in-the-know. If she was going to die, she was going to go out the way her brothers would be proud of, “Why’d you show me your face when you know I’ll only tell Sherlock?” 

He shrugged in a way that resembled a child, “For suspense, I'm gonna meet him soon obviously…I’m just testing him first, making sure he’s the same as me...but the prolonging? It’s just for suspense. I mean, how boring would our story be if it was over before it had barely started? I can do it to you, but I can’t just run up to _him_ and say hello.” 

“I mean you could have done, it’s what normal people do.” 

“Ugh, who’d want that?” He made a disgusted face and gave her a smile when she laughed. 

“Still doesn't explain why you're showing your face to me in person though does it?” She asked after a moment’s thought. _‘Perhaps he’s trying to distract me?’_

“You're very cheeky considering I could kill you at any moment.” 

“Yeeeah, but you won't do that will you?” 

“Won't I?” 

“I'd bet on it. It would be a very disappointing end of a chapter of your story.” 

Jim would be lying if he said he wasn’t thoroughly enjoying her bratty behaviour and answering her questions. His usual hostages were very bland in comparison. 

“I like you.” Jim said with a smile on his surprised face, and for some unexplained reason Delilah felt the fear of this man turn into something she’d compare to excitement, “Fine. I'll make you a deal. I’ll tell you why I’m showing up in person for you specifically...if you deduce me.” 

“I don't deduce.” Delilah laughed with an air of annoyance. It wasn't the first time someone had asked her to do that, in fact, her brothers had often challenged her to deduce growing up, and every time they would challenge her she would turn them down. She was never one for competition. 

“Liar.” 

“I don't.” 

“You're such a liar.” Jim teased. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint but I’m not Sherlock.” 

“I know you're not.” Jim said seriously, “I don't want to know what Sherlock thinks of me, in fact I already know what he thinks of me, but you? You're different from him, you’re a rather surprising person.” 

Delilah didn't know how to take that. Surprising? Her? Little ordinary Delilah Holmes was surprising to the consulting criminal and arch nemesis of her detective brother? She didn't believe him, but Jim had not lied to her so far, and he didn't intend ever to do so. He did find her surprising. She was enticing, and he felt as though there was something more lurking beneath the surface of her sarcasm and smiles. It was something that excited him. Something he’d like to see. Something he wanted. 

“Go on, give it go...what do you see when you look at me?” Jim asked. 

“I see...” Delilah thought, looking hard at her captor. 

She wasn’t Sherlock. She wasn't Mycroft. What did she know about this stranger? His name was Jim. He was a man. He liked to blow people up. 

_‘Duh,’_ She felt like she could hear Sherlock say in her ears, _‘What can you deduce from what you know?’_

_‘He blows people up,’_ Delilah thought, _‘What kind of person blows people up? A disturbed one of course. But I doubt anybody has ever gone to these types of lengths to play a twisted game of whos-the-cleverest. So he’s smart, and a bit like Sherlock...a lot like Sherlock. And I know my brother. Maybe Moriarty is the same? A person with sociopathic tendencies that isn't actually a sociopath, they just use that term to make themselves feel separate from their highly emotional selves so they don't have to deal with it all because in reality they feel much stronger than a lot of people do.’_

Somehow Delilah didn't think her internal honest observation would go over well with Jim, “I see...someone who is...bored.” 

“Bored?” Jim asked, disappointed. 

“Yeah...and a bit sad.” 

“That's all you get from me?” Jim asked, even more disappointed, his face skewed up in annoyance, “No ‘oh he loves expensive clothes and grooming so he’s definitely rich’? Well, that's not very cheery is it?” 

“I told you I’m not Sherlock. And you're not cheery.” 

Jim didn’t speak for a moment, but noticed the way she bit the inside of her lip and fiddled with the hem of her skirt, “You’re holding back aren't you?” 

Delilah sighed, “I think I might anger you with my honest opinion.” 

“You're scared of how I'll react?” Jim chuckled childishly at her. 

“You have a bomb strapped to my chest and a sniper pointed to my head, of course I am.” Delilah scoffed. 

“Your opinion really won't have that much of an affect on me darling, I assure you.” Jim replied. 

“I doubt it.” She smiled challengingly, and Jim gave her an approving smirk, “When I look at you, I see a lonely man, bored of the world and it's inferior inhabitants whose acting out as a desperate cry for attention from other like-minded intelligent people, but who is very adamant they’re separate from emotion and feelings in turn making them, to me, seem even more emotional and frankly, depressed.” 

Jim sighed, looked her up and down with a small smile. He hadn’t expected that. He swallowed a lump in his throat he didn't know he had. She’d read him like an open book. Him. And again, he just let her. He wasn't embarrassed or angry. He was impressed. 

“You think I’m depressed?” He asked with a laugh. Now it was her turn to be surprised. That certainly wasn't the response she’d expected. 

“I mean, you’ve got to be at least a little unhappy with the world if you're blowing innocent people up for fun.” She said, a little embarrassed that perhaps she was wrong in her observation. She didn't deduce for a reason, “It’s thought the happiest people are often the saddest and loneliest behind closed doors.” 

“Are you sad and lonely baby Holmes?” Jim asked seriously, her look of surprise and her rapid blinking confirming his own theory about her. 

“You already know that.” 

She smiled softly and genuinely at him, and Jim felt his brain become the fuzziest it had in years. Perhaps it was because he was usually face to face with screams and fear rather than genuinely contentedness. Why was she so radiant to him? So calm around him? Why did he find himself completely enamoured by this oddly behaving woman? Was she so strange, or was he just not used to this particular treatment? 

“Are you okay?” Now it was Jim’s turn to blink in surprise. _She_ was asking _him_ if _he_ was okay? Why was this woman who was at risk of death asking him if he was alright? Was she playing mind games with him? There was too many questions floating around and not enough answers to go with them for Jim’s liking. 

“Oh shut up, don't play fake nice with me.” Jim rolled his eyes. 

“I think you’d be able to tell if I was being fake nice,” Delilah said, still even so calm and kind, “I can tell when people aren't...okay. That's why you're doing all this stuff isn't it? You’re bored and you’re sad.” 

“No,” Jim chuckled, “I’m doing it because every fairytale needs a villain, darling. Every fairytale has a princess, an evil witch, magick only happens after midnight on the hour, everything happens in threes, and only the oldest child survives.” He said the last bit in a way Delilah could only describe as being a bad Dracula impression. 

“As the youngest sister of three, I particularly resent that last implication.” She laughed, and Jim watched her like her laugh was the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen and when she had stopped giggling, she continued, “You're a Liar.” 

“I’m the liar now?” Jim huffed with a smile. 

“Life isn't a fairytale Jim Moriarty. It’s boring and lonely and sad.” Delilah said softly. 

“Exactly.” 

They were silent for a moment, both looking at each other again, but this time the air felt heavier and Delilah thought for a moment she could see a real person, a real hurting feeling human standing in front of her. 

“Well...your turn. Why’d you show up in person for little old ‘ordinary’ me?” She said, hoping things wouldn’t turn too awkward and hoping she hadn't overstepped any unwritten boundaries. 

“Honestly? I didn't have much of a reason. Spontaneous decision really,” Jim answered with a smirk, “I assumed you’d be terrified and get yourself blown up trying to tell Sherlock all the little details about me.” 

“GASP! Not much faith in me at all.” Delilah smirked back. 

“I'm delightfully surprised of course. You’re more entertaining than I thought you'd be. Talented too,” He said pointing his finger and spinning it around in a way Delilah understood he was referring to her art covering the walls of the gallery, “I’m a sucker for a good art exhibition. I’d really be a liar if I said I wasn't interested to see your art. You’re smarter too though...definitely sexier.” 

She burst out laughing at this, not knowing how to handle a compliment so forward, “A flirt, what else can I add to the list of details about you, Mr Moriarty?” 

He gave her a smile but didn't answer. She knew he wasn't going to give her anything more this time. And then suddenly it was as though the air in the Gallery had changed. She was no longer laughing at his compliments or joking with him. It all became very real and very scary. He looked at his watch and gave out a heavy sigh, walked closer to her, pressed a few wires into place just below her chest and said, “I wish I could spend more time with you darling, but I must dash.” 

The time stamp on the bomb lit up red, the numbers beginning to count down quickly. 

“I’m going to be really sad if Sherlock doesn't save you my dear.” Jim said. 

“He will.” Delilah said confidently, but she couldn't help feeling as though she had swallowed her tongue. 

“I’ll be in touch.” Jim said. 

He gave her a wink and walked out the way he came, seemingly completely unphased by the entire thing. She watched him walk down the street without moving and when she could no longer see the back of his perfectly gelled hair and pressed suit, Delilah let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding in. 

Then, the fear hit her. It washed over her body and she fell into a lump on the floor. 

And then, she cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High five if you noticed the quote from the book 'A Study In Charlotte' by Brittany Cavallaro. Also, thank you for all the positive feedback so far, I am absolutely over the moon people are enjoying my writing!

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I have posted to AO3, I hope my work finds you all well. This is also my first Sherlock fan fiction for over seven years, hopefully my writing has improved and I look forward to bringing this Moriarty centric fan fiction to life! Thank you, x


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